


Par Avion, à Mon Amour

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-08
Updated: 2009-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:50:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Nathan Petrelli keeps a small package of letters from his family in his jacket pocket. Despite the dreary conditions on the western front in 1944, these tokens comfort him with proof that his family is safe at home, away from the horrors of war. But the letters hold messages he never suspected, and Nathan is losing his grip on the illusions that have kept him going all these years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Like nineteenth century novelists, I’m using a naming convention that substitutes dashes for place names. Therefore, most geographic locations are rendered with only an identifying first letter, like this: “B--.” This is to avoid driving WWII history buffs and Francophones crazy. Thanks go to [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) and [](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/profile)[**redandglenda**](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/) for encouragement and beta services. Written for [](http://heroes-bigboom.livejournal.com/profile)[**heroes_bigboom**](http://heroes-bigboom.livejournal.com/) Round Three.

**Art:** By [](http://dragon-lord.livejournal.com/profile)[**dragon_lord**](http://dragon-lord.livejournal.com/).  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/brighteyed_jill/pic/00011h29/)  


 

“More than kisses, letters mingle souls; for thus friends absent speak.” ~John Donne

 

\-----

 

_Normandy, France. June, 1944_

 

“Captain.”

 

Nathan lifted his head wearily to see a round-faced, dark-haired officer peering earnestly out of the darkness.

 

“What is it, Lieutenant?” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand to clear the sleep out of them, but only succeeded in further grinding in several days’ worth of dirt.

 

“There’s another squad coming in. Canadians, I think. What do you want ‘em to do?”

 

“Another squad,” Nathan sighed. “Where’s Sergeant Monroe?”

 

“Monroe?” The man blinked at him in confusion. “Sorry, sir. They told me you were in command, so I thought--.”

 

“I am in command, Lieutenant…?”

 

“Parkman, sir.”

 

“Parkman.” Nathan pulled himself up to sitting and threw his legs over the side of the cot. “Yes, I have ended up in charge of this little snafu they call a village. Does that get me mess privileges? A command vehicle? A decent place to sleep? An exo with half a brain? No it does not. The only good thing about being in charge is the privilege of delegating the responsibility for dealing with non-emergencies between the hours of midnight and oh-five-hundred.”

 

“Yes sir.” Parkman hunched in on himself as Nathan spoke. For a large man, he managed to look very meek.

 

Nathan clapped Parkman on the shoulder encouragingly and winced at the protests of joints aching from too many cold nights spent sleeping on the ground. Though it was summer now, the old aches didn’t go away. A decade in the service had taken its toll. “Go find Sergeant Monroe and tell him to figure out what to do with this new unit.”

 

“Yes sir.” Parkman saluted sheepishly. He backed away and slunk out of the room.

 

Nathan stretched, gritting his teeth at the pull of fatigued muscles and bent down to feel around for his boots. No chance of his getting back to sleep, though the sun had not yet made an appearance. He’d have to find something to busy his hands so the darkness would stop gnawing at his sanity.

 

The air was dusty even here, on the mostly-empty third floor of the tallest building in this bombed-out town. In sunlight, the dust hung in a haze, giving the whole world a softy, dreamy quality, blurring the sharp edges of the piles of rubble and bombed-out shells of people’s lives and livelihoods. In moonlight, however, or now, in the thin glow of pre-dawn, the dust was all but invisible. Though he couldn’t see it, Nathan could feel it, choking in his throat and clinging to his clammy skin. He laced up his boots, tying them firmly. He stood, checked for his weapons, his dog tags, and the packet of folded letters he kept inside his jacket, close to his heart. All accounted for. Time to face the day.  
\--

 

April, 1918. Rheims, France.

 

_Dear Nathan,  
You’re too young now to understand what I’m doing over here, fighting a war thousands of miles from our own country, but someday I hope you’ll read this and understand why I had to fight. Some of us are born with extraordinary abilities: leadership, fortitude, and courage. These are traits our family has always had. I strive every day to make the most of the strengths I’ve been given, and I hope that I may live to see you do the same someday. Godspeed, son.  
Arthur Petrelli  
Major General, United States Army_

\--

 

To Nathan’s great relief, some thoughtful soul had boiled water for coffee and left it cooling on a windowsill outside the building where Nathan billeted. Nathan made a mental note to find out who the budding cook was and recommend him for a medal when he got back to civilization. If they ever got back to civilization.

 

Nathan caught the sharp sound of an English accent echoing through the shells of the buildings that still stood in the center of R--. He rounded a corner to see a group of soldiers clustered around a pile of debris while Sergeant Adam Monroe berated them.

 

Most of the men—most little more than boys, really— who’d fallen under Nathan’s command were stragglers who’d lost their units, missed connecting at a rendezvous point, or been otherwise stranded. Nathan himself had lost most of his own squad when the eighty-seventh airborne had made a night jump over J--. The wind had been too high, and the Germans in the town below had started firing blindly into the cloud of parachutists. Nathan still wasn’t sure how he’d survived and came to ground dozens of kilometers away from the intended drop sight. Stories of such confusion weren’t uncommon on the front: most men under Nathan’s command had their own stories of how exactly things had become so fubar.

 

Thus thrown from the relative comfort of their fellows, they had a tendency to stand around slack-jawed and blinking in the face of any problem that couldn’t be solved by a rifle or a grenade. In light of that problem, Sergeant Monroe was a sight for sore eyes. Nathan had come upon him two weeks ago, when he and his men had been en route to this town to resupply at the station they’d been told had set up shop here. In the aftermath of a firefight, Monroe had been stripping bullets from the bodies of German soldiers who’d ambushed him and killed his squad. Nathan knew him for a practical man immediately. With no hope of getting back to British high command, he’d agreed to attach himself to the Americans for now. Truth be told, Nathan was grateful to have an officer around in the midst of all the fresh-faced, wide-eyed enlisted men. Monroe was certainly a godsend.

 

“Are you trying to give the Germans cozy places from which to shoot you in your empty little heads?” Monroe shouted at the wide-eyed boys. “When I said _clear_ the section of the street, I thought you’d understood what that meant. Do I need to stand here and instruct you on how to haul rocks?”

 

A few mutters of “No, sir,” drifted from the group.

 

Nathan strode up next to Monroe. “What was that, soldiers?” he prompted.

 

“Sir, no sir,” they replied, stronger this time.

 

“Carry on,” Nathan said. He gave them a curt nod. “Sergeant?” He moved off into the square, and Monroe followed. “Are those the new arrivals?”

 

Monroe snorted. “Not much of a unit. Nine men: the remains of an airborne battalion, plus a few stragglers from a technical unit got lost on their way to muster at L--. Couldn’t follow a map if it trotted in front of them with a set of panpipes.”

 

“Fine addition to our little menagerie.” Nathan looked back at the soldiers, who were now occupied with dragging chunks of rocks and other bits of debris off to the side of the road. “Thanks for keeping them busy.” He turned back toward the center of the town and began to walk. Moving helped him think, and the pre-dawn hush provided an opportunity to survey his little domain before the press and hustle of keeping his men busy distracted him.

 

Monroe fell into step beside him. “Captain. How long do you intend to stay here?”

 

“My orders are to hold this town,” Nathan said. He’d told himself as much about once an hour since he’d first ordered the men to dig in here. The town wasn’t a particularly critical supply point. It wasn’t on the way to anywhere in particular. It held no strategic advantage other than existing as other piece of land that belonged to _us_ and not _them_. “We stay until new orders come.”

 

“I’m not suggesting we abandon the town. But the enemy’s not here.” Monroe fell silent temporarily as they trooped past a group of bleary-eyed soldiers drawing water from the well. They stumbled to attention and saluted, and Nathan gave them an answering salute without breaking stride. When they were out of earshot, Monroe continued. “We’re cut off from the rest of the forces. You should ask about moving up to the front. That’s where we can do some real good. We’re too few here to be of much use to anyone.”

 

“With the number of leftovers we’ve got now, we could staff a whole platoon,” Nathan said. There must have been forty men in the village now, with all the human flotsam and jetsam they’d collected.

 

“Five severed fingers don’t make a hand,” Monroe said. “These men can barely work together. Your Americans don’t listen to me.”

 

“That’s not true, Monroe,” Nathan said. “No one can help but listen to you. You’re difficult to ignore. I think you’re mistaking incompetence for insubordination.”

 

“Point well taken.”

 

Nathan stopped walking. They’d come to the edge of town, where cobblestones gave way to packed dirt. The sound of insects hummed in the dusty air. “Sorry, Sergeant. We stay. For now.”  
\--

 

New York, New York. February, 1942

 

 _Son,  
Your father is be so proud of the important work you’re doing on the front. Even if he doesn’t have time to write himself, I know exactly what he feels to see you finally becoming the officer you were meant to be. I pray every day for both of your safety and for swift victory. I know that remaining a leader under these circumstances must be difficult, but I also know you have the strength to do right, always. You should concentrate on your responsibilities, and not worry about us. Whatever you hear from home, rest assured that I am taking care of the family. I’ll make sure that everything here happens as it should.  
Much love,  
Mother_  
\--

 

Nathan sat on the hood of a burned-out jeep in the shade of a burned-out building, out of the glare of the noonday sun, and stirred his tin of field rations idly. He wasn’t hungry in the least. Monroe sat next to him, wolfing down his own lunch with a vengeance.

 

“You’ve given the men orders for the afternoon?” he asked. Nathan knew he should care more about the everyday workings of their little operation, but each day he found it harder to involve himself in what he knew was busy work.

 

Monroe nodded and took another spoonful of his meal.

 

“To keep clearing the roads?” Nathan asked. He was glad to have remembered that much. After months of being immersed in the loud, muddy, breathless heat of front-line combat, this enforced idleness had sucked the vigor right out of him. If Monroe hadn’t been around to keep things running smoothly, he might have mustered the energy to put up a front of industriousness, but Monroe’s actions had absolved him of that responsibility.

“Your army’s more likely to be bringing tanks through here than the panzers,” Monroe observed.

 

“True.” Nathan squinted down the dusty, deserted road. Right now it was easy to believe this place would never again see any motor vehicle, let alone a tank. Still, if there was anything Nathan had learned during his time on the front, it was that the unlikely was bound to happen. “If the Germans try to take this road back, we’ll need some defenses.”

 

“I’ve got the men working on trip barricades at the entrances to the town.” Monroe nodded down the road, where the men were taking their own lunch break. “Easy to take down at first, unless you topple them. Then they’re the next best thing to a wall.”

 

“Where’d you learn so much about fortification?” Nathan looked over at Monroe curiously.

 

“I once had an assignment guarding this city from…” Monroe shrugged. “Well, they were absolute barbarians, anyway.”

 

Nathan nodded. He knew the type. He’d done a stint near the Russian front. “You been in the service a long time?”

 

“Seems like several lifetimes.” Monroe said. His smile seemed sad. “What about you? Why are you in the service? Your father?”

 

Nathan frowned. He hadn’t realized Monroe knew about his father. Still, such things should cease to surprise him, after being _Arthur’s son_ and _the oldest Petrelli boy_ for all of his military career. “Hard to escape the Petrelli name.”

 

“Arthur Petrelli was a great man.”

 

“You sound pretty sure of that.” Nathan shoved his spoon back into his can of beans and stirred it vigorously. In the year since his father’s death, he’d suffered through dozens of conversations with men who’d been his father’s enemies, or at least indifferent to him, extolling Arthur’s virtue.

 

“You’d know better than I, of course,” Adam said. “But I did meet him.”

 

“Really?” Nathan looked up with renewed interest.

 

“I was doing some consulting work for a special army project,” Adam said. “Your father seemed like a very…ambitious man.”

 

“Yes. That he was,” Nathan said. Adam seemed too young to run in the same circles as the generals and other senior officers with which Arthur surrounded himself, but if Arthur had seen some virtue in Monroe worth utilizing, than Nathan would be well-served to know him better. Then too, Monroe was a better, closer source of knowledge about his father than Nathan had met for some time. “Did he ever seem…?”

 

“What?” Monroe put down his food and raised an eyebrow quizzically.

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“Let me guess,” Monroe said slowly. “You think he kept secrets from you.”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“All military men have secrets. It’s the nature of our work.”

 

“Right.” Nathan looked back down at his uneaten lunch. Surely Adam had known his father. Those words had come out of Arthur’s mouth a dozen times or more.

 

“If you like, I’ll tell you about it, sometime,” Monroe leaned forward and lowered his voice so that it barely carried above the rustle of the breeze through the town. “That special project.”

 

“Right,” Nathan said. He didn’t want to see too eager, but he’d give half the Petrelli fortune to know something about the project to which Arthur had devoted the last years of his life. But Monroe didn’t need to know how much Nathan wanted that information. “Over a pint.”

 

“Too right.” Monroe stood and grabbed his empty lunch tin. “Soon enough we’ll make it to a bar again. Don’t worry, captain.” He sketched a salute in Nathan’s direction and took off to supervise his barricades.  
\---

 

New York, New York. August, 1942.

 

_Nathan,  
Happy birthday! Can’t send any presents through V-mail, of course, but I’ve got something to give you the next time you come home. If you think really hard, I’m sure you can guess what it is. Mom and I drove down to Boston on Tuesday to see my dormitory. It’ll be time to register for classes soon. I think I want to take a history class, and maybe biology. Mom says I’d be a good doctor. I’m not sure about that, but we’ll see how well I do in classes. Can’t wait to see you and give you your gift.  
Love,  
Peter_

\--

 

The barricades Monroe wanted to build were a delicate job. Nathan had watched as the sergeant had hand-picked half a dozen boys from their ragtag contingent and put them to work sawing tree branches from the nearby evergreen groves and lashing them together.

 

Nathan leaned on the second story windowsill of what had formerly been a bank, watching the proceedings with languid indifference. He had half a mind to sit and write a letter. God knew he had enough that deserved answers. Still, something about the crew Monroe had assembled kept his attention.

 

When one of the soldiers moved off to the side to get a new piece of wood, Nathan caught sight of a young man wiping sweat off his brow. His brown hair, messy from being habitually pressed under a helmet, was longer than regulation.

 

Nathan quickly turned away before he could make out more details. He tried not to picture his baby brother in a uniform. If he did, he could too easily see Peter everywhere: something about the way a certain soldier walked, or another one turned his head, or the sound of a laugh. He didn’t want to picture Peter here. He didn’t want Peter to have anything to do with any of this: death, fear, and danger. If Nathan thought too much about how much all these poor young bastards were like Peter, he’d go mad. That private, the one with the too-long hair, probably had an older brother somewhere worrying about him. And maybe someday that brother would receive a telegram from Army command that would break his heart.

 

If Nathan thought too much about it, he wouldn’t be able to make decisions. He wouldn’t be able to send men to danger, maybe to their death if he thought that somewhere in this desolate mess, another commanding officer was thinking of his Peter as nothing but another warm body to throw in front of the enemy. That wouldn’t happen. There would be no heart-breaking telegram for Nathan. His brother was safe in the States, and he was going to stay that way.

 

“Sir.” A tentative voice broke into Nathan’s reverie.

 

Nathan turned to see Lieutenant Parkman standing in the doorway, breathing hard as if he’d jogged across the town. “Something wrong, Lieutenant?” Nathan asked.

 

Parkman shook his head. “Sanders and I have got the radio working again.”

 

Nathan took several seconds longer than he’d like to admit to realize what that meant, and that they’d likely been working under Monroe’s orders. God bless the English. “Good work,” he managed. “Monitor the channels for the time being, and see if you can pick up an Allied frequency. We don’t want to break radio silence and give away our position until we have a reason.”

 

After a quick salute, Parkman was off, and Nathan was left alone again. He could hear the muted conversation of the soldiers still working on Monroe’s barricade in the heat below, but he didn’t go to the window to look at them. Instead, he took a walk.

 

Nathan climbed down the half-ruined stairs of the bank building and headed down the main street, threading his way through torn-up stretches of cobblestone and nodding at his men as he passed. He made his way to the church at the center of the village. The dust was less thick here, and the building was quiet. Though the church was mostly intact, Nathan had ordered his men to leave it vacant. It didn’t seem right to have soldiers going about their nightly business— sleeping, swapping stories, playing cards, trading cigarettes, maybe getting each other off in the boredom and darkness of long summer nights— in a house of worship, even one as forsaken as this.

 

Nathan climbed the narrow stairway up to the choir loft and found a sunny spot by the open window to sit down. He pulled his packet of letters from its habitual spot, in the left breast pocket of his uniform. The one on top was the latest from Peter. He didn’t open it to re-read it—he knew what it said, after all, word for word, but he held it in his hand, running his thumb across the corner over and over.

 

It had been too long since they'd last seen each other. In the train station in New York, when Nathan had left to return from medical leave, almost a year ago. He'd earned a purple heart when he shoved a fellow officer out of the way of an exploding mortar. The injury had earned him six weeks at home: more time than he'd had with his family in years. Peter had had to share him with Heidi, Ma, and the boys, of course, but Nathan had seen the change in Peter, even then. Peter, who had always been so in love with the world before, had been distant and sad then.

 

Nathan had insisted on sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms, so as not to disturb Heidi with his tossing and turning as he tried to get comfortable despite the bandages. He'd known, of course, that night was the only time he and Peter had a prayer of spending any time alone. Sure enough, Peter had slipped into his bedroom most nights. "I love you," Peter would whisper. They'd do what they had always done together, the familiar dance of their childhood, as well they could with Nathan's injuries. Nathan had no difficulty forgetting the pain when Peter's hands were on him, carefully avoiding the worst of the wounds and wrapping his hand delicately around Nathan's erection.

 

Nathan didn't want to talk about the things he'd seen at the front, and Peter understood. He talked instead. He talked as if he wanted to give Nathan as many memories as he could carry to take back with him when he inevitably had to return to the front.

 

"I miss you every day," he'd say. He told stories of the things he did at university, people he knew, what he was learning. The latest girl Ma had tried to push on him. Or later, when he was hard and rutting gently against Nathan's hip, so careful not to jostle him, he would say other things. "I read your letters over and over again, and I imagine your voice. God I miss your voice. I lay in bed thinking of you, wondering if you're reading my letters, too, and thinking about me. I want you so bad, sometimes, I think I might die from it. I touch myself at night, remembering the last time, remember, Christmas? Don't tell me it's wrong... I need something when you're away. I just need you so much. My hand doesn't feel like you, nothing near enough. Or sometimes, I'll use my fingers, and imagine you're fucking me. Don't look at me like that. You don't know what it's like. I'm all alone here, and I know I won't get you back for a long time, years maybe, so I have to do something. I can close my eyes and imagine that you're fucking me, that you're kissing me and inside of me. Nathan! Don’t leave me again."

 

After he came, he would always stay wrapped around Nathan, gingerly, ever the contentious caretaker. "I wonder, sometimes, if you're in France thinking of me. Maybe touching yourself and thinking of me, wanting to fuck me," he’d whispered. “Say you do. Say you’re the same as me.”

 

Nathan had said nothing to that, though there was enough truth in it to make Nathan uncomfortable. Euphoric with afterglow, Peter had always let Nathan get away with such omissions, content to drowse against Nathan until dawn drove him back to his own bed.

 

The weeks had run fast that way. The wounds on Nathan’s torso and his chin had healed, and they'd made him a Captain in preparation for his return to the front. Before Nathan returned to duty, he knew what he had to do. Peter couldn’t be allowed to suffer too much after Nathan was gone. So Nathan had given him a talking to, in private, in the early dawn hours before he left for the train.

 

“I don’t know what I would have done if you’d died over there,” Peter had said, tracing a hand over the place on Nathan’s chest where shrapnel scars still lingered.

 

“I still could, when I go back.” Nathan took Peter’s wrist and gently pulled his hand away.

 

“So don’t go back.”

 

“I have to. They need me.”

 

“I need you more.” Peter’s hands were back, this time wrapped around Nathan’s waist.

 

Nathan had pulled Peter off again and held Peter’s arms to his sides. “Pete. You have to let me go. You have to stop… this whatever-it-is. Make your own life. Concentrate on your schoolwork. Find a nice girl.”

 

“I’ll always be yours.” Peter had smiled his lop-sided smiled, and for a moment, Nathan wanted it to be true. He wanted to believe that they could belong only to each other, that he could stay here forever. But the things he’d seen in France, the danger, the horror, were his to face. Nathan had to bear them to keep Peter safe.

 

Nathan had turned away from Peter’s smile and the need that radiated from him like body heat. “I won’t always be yours, Pete,” he said coldly. “You’ve got to get used to doing without me.” He had walked out without waiting for an answer.

 

Nathan knew he’d done the right thing. Peter was hundreds of miles away, safe at school. As safe from the draft as any young American man could be. Ma kept an eye on him, and kept him out of trouble. Nathan knew that however much his rejection had stung Peter, Peter’s safety was more valuable than his pride, or Nathan’s loneliness. The letters that had come since that meeting had not been as warm as they once were, but that was a small price for Nathan to pay to keep the most precious thing in his life safe.

 

He held the much-creased letter to his face, and imagined he could smell Peter. Of course his own sweat and the dirt of combat had rubbed away all tangible traces of home, but he could imagine. He still remembered, and too well, what Peter smelled like, how his skin felt—soft under Nathan’s calloused hands—and the muffled sounds of pleasure he made.

 

Nathan allowed himself a moment more of indulgence before re-folding the letter, slipping it back into the waterproof packet with the other letters, and re-securing it in his pocket, safe next to his heart.  
\--

 

Hyde Park, New York. October, 1942.

_Dearest Nathan,  
What a beautiful fall it’s turning out to be. The trees here have begun to turn. Simon is so proud of his little victory garden. He’s been bringing me ripe tomatoes all summer, but now there’s squash, too. Eden (that’s our new helper—Angela didn’t care for Bridget) made us squash soup. Last week we all went down to Coney Island. It was too cold to swim, of course, but we had a fine time anyway. We had our picture taken, so you can replace that old Coney Island one. Isn’t Monty getting big now! I love you and I think about you always. Be safe.  
Love,  
Heidi_

\--

 

At night, Nathan’s men tried to keep the light to a minimum. There were no blazing bonfires in the streets. Nathan allowed himself a small oil lantern to brighten the room where he and Monroe retired after assigning watches.

 

They ate their field rations in silence. Most evenings they’d talk over the events of the day, or perhaps discuss plans for the next day. Tonight, Nathan didn’t feel like talking. He was haunted by the image of the soldier who looked like his brother. It wasn’t normal for an officer to worry this much about his kid brother. After all, Peter was a grown man, twenty years old now, and Nathan was a husband and a father. He had responsibilities. Nathan pulled out the packet of letters and other sentimental papers, and found the one he wanted. He slid the worn and creased picture out from the letter, and stared as shadows from the flickering lantern played over the faces of his family: Heidi in her chair, wide-brimmed straw hat shadowing her face. The baby in her lap, his little arms reaching for the camera.

 

“That your girl?” Monroe asked.

 

“My wife, yes.” Nathan passed him the photo.

 

Monroe handled the worn square of paper gently. He held it closer to the lamp to get a better look. “Polio?”

 

“Epidemic of ’34,” Nathan said. Not long after they’d been married. And that had taken some adjustment. Some adjustment, and some folly while at an army base in Texas, when he’d had to decide exactly how much he loved Heidi.

 

“Sorry.”

 

Nathan shrugged. Heidi had had the best medical care money could buy. She was perfectly healthy, aside from her legs, and that was more good fortune than many had experienced. She’d been a good wife to him, he reminded himself guiltily, and he had her to thank for Simon and Monty. “It’s an old picture. Just after our first son was born.”

 

“How many you have now?”

 

“Just two. Ten and seven. Fine boys.”

 

“I’m sure they are,” he said politely, and handed back the photo.

 

“You have any family, Monroe?”

 

“No, not I,” Monroe chuckled. “Wouldn’t know what to do with one.”

 

“What about a girl?”

 

“Not that either. No, I’m afraid no one’s waiting at home for me,” he said, leaning back against the wall. “I’ve always been a career driven man…”

 

“Sometimes I think that might be better.” Nathan tucked the photo back into his packet of letters.

 

“Well. You certainly have something to fight for, Captain.”

 

“That I do.” Nathan looked out into the dark silence of the town where his men, including the one who looked like Peter, were sleeping.  
\--

 

Hyde Park, New York. December 1942.

 

_Dearest Nathan,  
Something has happened at home. I don’t want you to worry. You should only know that it involves your brother. I wish you’d write him, Nathan. I think he needs to hear some of your wisdom. Tell him to be patient. I’ll find a way to get him the letter. At this point, you may be the only one he’ll listen to.  
Much love,  
Mother_

 

\---

 

When Nathan came down to make some coffee in the morning, he saw two bedraggled scouts in the foyer giving their report to Monroe and Parkman. After pouring himself a tin cup full of sludgy caffeinated water, he trudged over to hear the latest bad news.

 

“Sir,” Monroe nodded to him as he approached. “Seems the Germans are closer than we expected.”

 

“The Krauts are staying up the road for now, sir,” Parkman reported. “At least, from what we can tell. There’s a little church, maybe two clicks up the lane. That’s where they’ve set themselves.”

 

“And they’ll come back tonight to rout us out,” Nathan said grimly.

 

“Likely,” Monroe said. “They’ve seen how few of us are left.”

 

“Parkman,” Nathan said. “Get on the radio. Get them to send us some trucks.”

 

“Trucks, sir?”

 

“Trucks. Trucks,” Nathan said impatiently. “If we need to get out of here, feet won’t carry us fast enough. Or do you want to be running away from a tank on your own two legs? Get me trucks.”

 

“Yes sir,” Parkman gulped, and hastened out.

 

“Monroe. Show me this church.”  
\--

 

Hyde Park, New York, March, 1943.

 

 _Dear Daddy,  
Claire said if I wrote down a letter, she would help me with the spelling and everything. Claire is the new helper after Bridget and Eden. Robby in Mrs. Miller’s class, his dad is in the Navy, and he says when we collect scrap metal for the drive at school, they make it into bullets and guns for you to fight the Germans. Is that true? Last year Uncle Peter helped me pull Monty’s wagon around to pick up donations, but now that I’m the man of the house, I can do it myself. Don’t worry, I am taking very good care of Mommy and Grandmother. And Monty, too. I hope they will let you come home for Christmas.  
Love,  
Simon_  
\--

 

After two weeks of squatting in a bombed-out French village, the open countryside presented a welcoming change. Nathan would have enjoyed it more, of course, under different circumstances. If he hadn’t needed to keep a constant eye on the road that ran along beside them, the tree line at the edge of the field, everything around them, to scan for danger. If there hadn’t been every likelihood that the German unit they were going to spy on was probably going to kill all his men tonight. He was grateful that Monroe didn’t try to make small talk, but rather walked beside him, his blond hair hidden under his helmet, his rifle at the ready.

 

When the steeple of the church came into sight, they abandoned the road and crept into the woods. They came through the creek, soaking both their boots, and make their way cautiously through the trees and thick, full underbrush. The Germans had left only one sentry, and he was leaning idly against the back of the church, staring into the woods with drooping eyes. Nathan crept quietly through the underbrush, grateful for once for the overcast gloom that provided plenty of shadows to hide in. Monroe moved beside him, silent as a snake, and together they made it to the edge of the tree line, within ten yards or so of the building.

 

At this distance, Nathan could see the eyes of the Germans, and he felt his stomach tighten in fear. There were a dozen or so men talking and cooking outside, but Nathan’s scouts had reported at least two score, so there must have been more in the church. More than enough to easily take out an American and a British officer if they were caught. Worse, this group might take it in their mind that capturing two officers was an ever better victory. Nathan resolved to not get caught.

 

“Seen an officer?” he whispered to Monroe.

 

“Just a sergeant. I think. The one with the pistol. By the bench, see?”

 

Another uniformed man stepped out of the church and approached the sergeant. By the way the other men gave him a wide berth, Nathan had him figured for the commander. He began to speak to the sergeant in animated tones.

 

“You understand German?” Monroe asked.

 

“No, French. You?”

 

“A little,” Monroe said slowly.

 

“And?”

 

“They’re planning to take the town. Tonight, I think.”

 

“You think?”

 

“He said, ‘I’ll be glad to stay somewhere with a well tomorrow.’ That would mean in town.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Petrelli, look.” Monroe carefully slid sideways along the row of foliage that hid them. Slowly, he pointed behind the stone wall of the little church. “Panzer.”

 

Sure enough, a tank sat in the courtyard of the church, just hidden from the road. Its crew sat atop it, eating out of cans and talking loudly. With that, the Germans could sit outside the town proper and send shells into R—until Nathan’s men were all buried and bleeding beneath the rubble. Even if they’d had the equipment to take out a tank, Nathan’s ragtag band was no match for this force. He’d seen brave Americans, young men drunk with patriotic fervor and blinded by the illusion of invulnerability born from their ignorance, face off against such superior forces and die by the dozens. A single machine gun nest could mow down a row of charging soldiers. A tank posed a similar threat, especially in a town like R--, where men would be wedged into small spaces, separated from their fellows, seeking to snipe at the superior force and instead trapping themselves like fish in a barrel. Nathan felt claustrophobic just thinking of the town, in the dark of night, lit up by mortar fire and charged with the screams of the dying.

 

“Captain?” Monroe put his hand on Nathan’s shoulder. “Seen enough?”

 

Nathan nodded. Slowly, he crawled backwards, keeping his eyes trained on the sentry. When he was far enough away to have cover behind a thick row of bushes, he moved to a crouch and threaded his way back through the woods, away from the Germans. Monroe kept up easily. When they got back to the creek, Nathan sat down heavily. “There’s more than enough of them to take R--,” he said softly. “And with those tanks… Even with the defenses you had them build, there’s no way for us to save the town.”

 

“What about your orders?”

 

“It’s not even a town,” Nathan said tightly. “There’s no one there but us. Bombed out buildings, ruined streets. No supplies, no resources. It’s not in a particularly strategic position.”

 

“And?” Monroe prompted.

 

“Let’s go back. Parkman’s waiting on us.”  
\--

 

Location redacted. June, 1943.

 

_Dear Captain Petrelli,  
I wanted to write to you before you received the news in an official telegram. Your father is dead. I can’t give you any details about his death in this letter, and the Army won’t be able to tell you, either. I hope someday to meet you and explain the event to your satisfaction. Until then, be assured that your father loved you. He often told me how proud he was of the man you’d become, and we talked many times of his plans for your future. If my duties take me back to Europe this spring, I will endeavor to find you. If not, your mother always knows how to get in touch with me. We have much to discuss. My deepest condolences on the loss of your father._

_Fond regards,  
Daniel Linderman,  
Sergeant Major, United States Army_

\--

 

“Any word from the trucks?” Nathan asked.

 

“They said they’d be here just after sunset,” Monroe said. “Probably.”

 

“If they don’t get here, we’ll have to be prepared to tangle with the Krauts.”

 

“Shall we tell them?” Monroe asked, nodding out the windows to where the men stood chatting along the street.

 

“Give it awhile longer.”

 

“No need to worry them,” Monroe said. “I’ll see to moving those barricades to a more useful position.”

 

The moment he was out of sight around the corner, Parkman reappeared from the opposite direction at a dead run. “They’re coming,” he panted as soon as he was close enough to be heard. “Thirty at least, on foot, plus the tank.”

 

Nathan closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t want to make this decision. These weren’t his men, and this wasn’t his command, not really. He was only in charge here by coincidence. “How far?”

 

“A kilometer, maybe.”

 

Must be on their way down to G--, trying to flank the north side of the advancing line. Nathan couldn’t hope to stop them here. At least he could delay them. He thought of the soldier he’d glimpsed earlier—the one who’d put him in mind of Peter. That man—all Nathan’s men—would be slaughtered if they stayed.

 

“Captain. What do we do?” Parkman asked. “Sir?”

 

“Get on the horn. Make sure we’ll have those trucks. Be certain.”

 

“Sir, I’m not sure if--.”

 

“It’s a retreat, Parkman. A strategic withdrawal. Get me trucks for the men so we can get out of here before the Germans come kill us all.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“Tell the men to prepare to fall back the minute those trucks get here.” Nathan looked back at the tumbledown village that had been his home for the past week. “They can have the damn town. It doesn’t matter. Spread the word.”

 

Parkman saluted—as if saluting was something that still mattered in this God-forsaken place—and hustled out.

 

Nathan followed him to the doorway, and that’s when he saw it again: the soldier who looked like his brother. The boy was getting a drink from the well with a half-dozen other soldiers. His smile flashed like a light when one of his buddies made a joke. He swiped his wet hands through his dark hair before re-fastening his helmet, emblazoned with the red cross that marked him as a medic.

 

Nathan saw the flash before he heard the boom, but before he could move to cover his ears, the ground shook, debris rained from the building across the street, and the boys at the well took off running away down an alley, out into the plaza. Toward the Germans.

 

“Wait!” Nathan ran after them. Another flash lit up the dusty air, and out of instinct, Nathan threw himself to the ground. Small rocks pinged off his helmet, and then he was up and running again. The group of men who’d been in front of him had gotten caught by the last blast. Through the clearing dust, Nathan could see several men laying on the group, unmoving. Out in the open, a few more lay screaming in agony, clutching their wounds. The young man in the medic helmet knelt by the side of one of his comrades, holding his hands against the mass of red that was the man’s belly.

 

“Peter!” Nathan shouted.

 

The medic’s head snapped up, and Nathan saw familiar brown eyes in a face smudged with dirt and blood. His brother. Not a doppelganger, or Nathan’s wishful thinking distorting his perception of a stranger. Peter. Here.

 

At the other end of the plaza, shouting and pounding boots grabbed Nathan’s attention. A squad of Germans stormed onto the plaza, shooting at anything that moved.

 

Nathan dashed forward and grabbed Peter by the back of his shirt to pull him away. Peter shook him off. “He’ll bleed out!” Peter shouted. The boy whose stomach Peter was holding closed stared up at them, ashen-faced and terrified. “I can’t leave him.”

 

“He’s gone,” Nathan said shortly.

 

“No.” Peter stubbornly bent to his work.

 

German shouting echoed off the walls of the shells of buildings lining the plaza. Nathan caught sight of a German through the clearing smoke not twenty feet away take aim at one of the injured men on the ground and open fire.

 

“We have to go.” Nathan grabbed Peter under the arms and hauled him up against his chest to drag him backwards into the alley, to safety.

 

“Dort! Es gibt einen!”

 

Nathan straightened and reached for his sidearm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peter rise also. From ten yards away, the German raised his rifle and fired.

 

Nathan felt rather than saw the bullets impact Peter’s body.

 

“No!” Nathan stumbled back, pulling Peter with him. He wrenched his sidearm out of its holster and fired blindly through the haze.

 

“Here!”

 

Nathan had never been so happy to see the British. To his right, along the near side of the plaza, Sergeant Monroe had a squad assembled. They were firing from behind the cover of a crumbled wall, and the Germans on the plaza were falling back.

 

Leaving them to their work, Nathan hauled his brother around the corner. He collapsed against the wall with Peter on top of him. “Peter?” He reached a hand around to the front of Peter’s uniform, and it came away sticky with blood.

 

He shifted Peter to the ground, and when Nathan leaned over him he could see the small holes where bullets had punched through Peter’s jacket. Nathan pressed his hand against the highest of the wounds, just below the sternum.

 

“I’m dead, is that right?” Peter’s eyes were open. “You’re an angel. You look like Nathan.”

 

“Don’t talk.” Nathan pressed down harder to stem the flow of blood, and Peter made an unpleasant gurgling sound in his throat. “Sh. It’ll be okay.” But it wouldn’t be, not at all, not unless he got Peter to a field hospital.

 

“It’s not supposed to hurt, after you’re dead,” Peter said, sounding puzzled. “Why does it hurt?”

 

Monroe appeared at his shoulder. “Come on, Petrelli. Trucks are here. And the Krauts will be back across the plaza in a tick.”

 

“Help me get him up.”

 

“Sir.” Monroe looked into Peter’s drawn face, then back up at Nathan. “You can’t help him.”

 

“This is my brother. I’m not leaving him.”

 

Monroe helped Nathan lift Peter to his feet, and slung an arm around his shoulder.

 

Parkman was waiting with the convoy of trucks at the edge of town. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other as the sound of gunfire drew closer.

 

Nathan looked to his brother, whose face was deathly pale. “Put him in the Jeep,” he told Monroe. He grabbed Parkman by the arm. “We’re leaving right now. Tell the men to mount up.”

 

Nathan took the driver’s seat and revved the engine to life. A quick glance to the back showed him Monroe pressing a dirty cloth against Peter’s stomach. Peter had his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut, and was gripping the edge of the seat, white-knuckled.

 

Parkman slid into the passenger seat. “Everyone’s getting out, sir.” He unfolded a map. “The bridge is out at T--. We’ll have to take another route.”

 

Nathan gunned the motor and pulled out onto the road, away from the center of town and the sound of gunfire. “We’re not going to T--.”

 

“But sir. We’re supposed to meet up with the others there, and--.”

 

“Get us to the nearest field hospital. Right now.”  
\--

 

Boston, Massachusetts. July, 1943.

 

_Dear Nathan,  
I need you to know how angry I am. I understood why you had to leave right after the funeral, and I hope you’re safe, but leaving me behind was wrong. You could have at least come to see me at school before you went. I’m not supposed to be here watching Mom dote over your wife and telling your sons to buck up and be brave. I know Dad always said I’ll never amount to much, but I always believed you knew different. I should be doing something to help out there, and I thought you understood that. I know what I have to do now._

_Yours always, despite everything,  
Pete_  
\--

 

Nathan couldn’t go as fast as he wanted. The road was rough and washed out in places. Every time they hit a particularly rough patch, Peter made a wet, deep-in-his-throat sound of agony.

 

“How much further?” he asked Parkman.

 

“Miles,” Parkman said softly. “We have to get up to L-- Road. And then I think we turn at the river. Or possibly before.”

 

“Figure it out,” Nathan snarled.

 

Parkman turned the map in shaking hands.

 

“Is my brother here?” Peter asked.

 

“Try not to talk,” Monroe said.

 

“I thought I saw him, but it could have been an angel.”

 

Monroe leaned forward, close to Nathan’s ear. “You should pull over.”

 

“We have to get him to a doctor.”

 

“You’ve seen this, Petrelli. One last burst of strength right before the end. If you want to say goodbye--.”

 

“How long?” Nathan demanded, glancing at Parkman.

 

“Ten minutes?” Parkman didn’t sound very sure.

 

“You don’t have ten minutes,” Monroe said darkly.

 

Nathan swore under his breath. The road before him disappeared into the deepening dusk, and with it went any chance of his brother’s survival.

 

He eased off the gas and guided the Jeep off the road, bringing it to a stop beneath a tree in a stony pasture. He slid out of the driver’s seat and pulled open the back door.

 

Peter was frighteningly pale; his breath came in shallow, labored pants.

 

“Hold here.” Monroe grabbed Nathan’s hand and pressed it against Peter’s abdomen where the uniform was wet and sticky with blood.

 

Monroe wiped his bloody hand on Peter’s jacket and pulled away. “Come on, soldier,” he said, catching Parkman by the arm and pulling him away.

 

“Nathan?” Peter blinked up at him.

 

“What the hell are you doing here, Pete?”

 

“Don’t you know there’s a war on?” Peter laughed at his own joke. A bubble of blood welled up at the corner of his mouth, then popped.

 

“You said you’d stay home. Look after Heidi and the boys for me. Take care of Ma. You aren’t supposed to be here.”

 

“Had to help.”

 

“Christ, Peter.”

 

“Don’t be mad,” he whispered. His hand found the crook of Nathan’s elbow and held on. “Just wanted to be a hero. Like my big brother.”

 

“No,” Nathan tried to say, but the word caught in his throat and became a sob.

 

“You are, Nathan. You should hear Heidi talk about you. And your medals.” He took a few quick breaths, his belly rising and falling under Nathan’s hands. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

 

Nathan squeezed his eyes shut. “Monroe gave you morphine.” Good. Peter could slip away peacefully.

 

“The Englishman? No,” Peter said.

 

Nathan searched his brother’s eyes. “What?”

 

“He didn’t give me anything. But I don’t feel any pain.” He brushed a hand over his chest, where two more dark red spots marked the holes where two more German bullets had entered. Something small and hard thumped against the upholstery as it fell. Peter struggled to pull himself upright.

 

“Don’t try to move,” Nathan protested.

 

“It doesn’t hurt,” Peter cut him off.

 

Peter pulled off his jacket and struggled with the layers underneath while Nathan sat frozen, watching. He pushed his suspenders off his shoulders, pulled his ruined undershirt over his head, and used it to wipe blood off his skin.

 

Nathan stared. There were no holes. No sign that there had ever been any: no scar or blemish of any kind.

 

“What happened?” Peter whispered.

 

Nathan reached out a hand to feel the smooth, pale skin of his brother’s belly.

 

“What happened?” Peter asked, louder.

 

Nathan only shook his head.

 

Pounding footsteps on the grass announced Monroe and Parkman’s return. “Planes are making a pass,” Monroe shouted. “We have to kill the headlights.”

 

“It’s not full dark yet,” Parkman shouted. “They’ll still see us!”

 

“Petrelli, come on. We have to get away from the Jeep. We’re too tempting of a target.” Adam grabbed Nathan’s arm, but froze at the sight of Peter sitting up in the back seat of the Jeep, awake and aware.

 

“They’re getting louder!” Parkman warned, a note of panic slipping into his voice.

 

“What did you do?” Monroe asked, fixing Nathan with a searching stare.

 

“Let’s get Peter to safety,” Nathan said quickly. “We’ll hide in the trees until the planes pass, and pray they don’t shoot up the Jeep too badly for us to drive it.”

 

“What happened to him?” Monroe asked.

 

“Come on.” Nathan pulled his brother out of the vehicle.

 

“I can walk,” Peter grumbled.

 

Parkman took off at a jog for a copse of trees at the near end of the field. Nathan followed, keeping an arm around Peter’s shoulder, and Monroe brought up the rear, never once taking his eyes from the Petrellis.

* * *

  
[On to Part Two](http://brighteyed-jill.livejournal.com/63930.html#cutid1)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Nathan Petrelli keeps a small package of letters from his family in his jacket pocket. Despite the dreary conditions on the western front in 1944, these tokens comfort him with proof that his family is safe at home, away from the horrors of war. But the letters hold messages he never suspected, and Nathan is losing his grip on the illusions that have kept him going all these years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like nineteenth century novelists, I’m using a naming convention that substitutes dashes for place names. Therefore, most geographic locations are rendered with only an identifying first letter, like this: “B--.” This is to avoid driving WWII history buffs and Francophones crazy. Thanks go to [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) and [](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/profile)[**redandglenda**](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/) for encouragement and beta services.

 

We lay aside letters never to read them again, and at last we destroy them out of discretion, and so disappears the most beautiful, the most immediate breath of life, irrecoverable for ourselves and for others. ~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe  
\-----

 

The plane engines roared overhead. Nathan barely registered the sound. All he had room for in his mind was Peter. Peter, lying right there next to him in the ditch where the four of them lay breathless, waiting. Peter here. Alive. The sound faded, and Parkman slumped in relief. His relaxation was short-lived: in a moment, the whir of the engines returned.

 

“They’ve seen the Jeep,” said Monroe. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

“How are we going to get to T-- without a truck?” Parkman hissed.

 

“We’ll figure something out. Better to stay alive,” Monroe snapped.

 

Nathan barely heard him. He was watching Peter, who lay there looking up at the darkening sky, chest rising and falling with breath and life.

 

“Captain?” Monroe prompted him.

 

Nathan tore his eyes away from his brother. “Let’s move.”

 

They ran back to the Jeep just long enough to grab what supplies they could: Parkman’s pack, the medical kit from Peter’s belt, and some food that had been loaded into the back seat prior to the attack. By the time they fled back into the woods, they could hear the sound of plane engines returning.

 

Monroe led the way as they jogged cross-country, picking through trees in the deepening dusk until they came to an open field and a barn. The ramshackle farmhouse at the far end of the field was dark, and possibly uninhabited. Monroe crept ahead to peer in the windows of the barn After a surreptitious inspection of the premises, he gave Nathan an “all clear” wave.

 

Monroe pushed open the creaky wooden doors, and the others came out of the woods to follow him inside. They rested gratefully on hay bales stacked along the walls and sat in exhausted silence for several minutes.

 

Finally, Nathan felt that he as the ranking officer should do something. He’d essentially abandoned his post today, all for Peter’s sake, and the least he could do was take care of his three remaining companions. “Who’s taking the first watch?”

 

Monroe said, “I will.” He heaved himself up from his hay bale. “Parkman can help.”

 

Parkman gave a halfhearted grunt of protest, but when Monroe glared at him, he rose to his feet, grabbed his rifle, and followed Monroe out the front door of the barn to stand vigil.

 

"I'm not tired," Peter muttered. "We could have taken the first watch."

 

“You need a break.” Nathan’s hand went to his jacket, but rather than the familiar weight of his package of letters, he felt nothing. “Oh.”

 

“What?” Peter looked over at Nathan’s hand clutched to his chest and his face broke into frantic distress. In an instant, he was crouched in front of Nathan, digging in his med kit. “You should have told me you were injured. Where does it hurt?”

 

“I’m not injured.” Nathan waved him away. “Just… Letters. My letters. I dropped them.”

 

“Oh.” Peter sat back on his heels. “Letters from Heidi?”

 

“Some of them. From Ma, too.” He fingered his empty pocket, and thought about how he could probably recite the letters from memory if he tried. “Mostly from you.”

 

“I always wondered if you even read them. There’s never much to tell. When you were gone, I’d just be waiting for you to come back.” Peter stood abruptly and brushed dirt off his uniform. “It’s okay. I’m here now, it doesn’t matter you lost them.”

 

“You’re here.” Nathan stared blankly up at the stranger before him: Peter in uniform, bloodied and dirty, but alive.

“T  
hat’s right,” Peter soothed. He knelt next to Nathan on the hay bale and dropped his arms over Nathan’s shoulders. “It’s all right now.”

 

"It is not all right, Peter.” Nathan shrugged off his brother’s embrace. “You got shot this afternoon. I watched it happen." The scene came to his mind too easily: the dull thunk of bullets impacting Peter's body, the wild churning of his arms as he tried to keep his balance, his own shout as Peter fell backwards into his arms.

 

"Hey, hush." Peter gathered Nathan to him again, gently. "I'm okay. I'm here."

 

"But you weren't." Tension and adrenaline, which had been boiling for hours just under the surface, threatened to spill out. Nathan wanted to fight, or run away: something to disperse the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. "You were dying. I held you. They told me I had to say goodbye. You were _dying_ Peter. Do you know what that means?"

 

"I know," Peter said softly. He rubbed his hands up and down Nathan's back, trying to soothe. "I'm a medic. I've seen men die."

 

"You don't understand. I'm responsible, Peter. Men under my command... I've seen them.” Nathan could picture them clearly, even now. The most vivid memories were the oldest, the first men he’d seen die in battle, years ago. “When they're bleeding out from a gut wound, with their own shit spilling into their stomach, crying for their mom or their girl, they're dying because I gave an order. Or they're screaming that their leg's been blown off, and there's the medic telling them it's going to be okay, but it won't be, because it never is, they're never going to be the same again, and even if the medic can fix what's wrong, they might die because we're out here in the middle of a war zone, nobody's coming to help us.” He stopped for a moment, bit back the ugly torrent of words, but then he made the mistake of looking at Peter, who was watching him with understanding and sympathy, not fear or disgust, and he had to go on.

 

“They're so young, Pete, some of them younger than you, and they have no idea what it's like when they sit around with their friends back home in Atlanta or Tucson or wherever the hell they come from and say, 'Hey, the radio man says there's a war on, I better do my part!’” He snorted in disgust as he mimicked the upbeat tones of the youngest recruits. “They've got nothing in their empty heads, and _you_ bought into it.” He jumped up and turned on Peter, whose eyes were getting wider every second. “You came here. You came here and you could have died. And those kids, they're my command, they're my responsibility, but Peter, you're _mine_. I'm supposed to take care of you. You _lied_ to me. You promised you wouldn't come, and now you're here. You could die. You almost did die. You don't understand what would happen. Did you even think what would happen if you left me? I couldn't, without you, Pete. I couldn't even..."

 

"Shh." Peter was up again, beside him, and he held onto Nathan so tight it was difficult to breathe. He pressed his lips to Nathan's and kissed him. He kissed him hard in short, quick movements, cutting off the flow of words that Nathan couldn't stop on his own. Each kiss was longer, until Nathan finally let Peter in, let Peter kiss him like he wanted to: deep and desperate, sliding his tongue into Nathan's mouth and biting his lip and taking all of his attention away from horror and trying to show him beauty, show him love instead.

 

Nathan's breath came too fast, as if he had run a great distance. His whole body was thrumming with tension, as if he'd been the one who almost died back there on the road. "I'm sorry," he whispered into Peter's mouth. "I'm so sorry."

 

"Stop it," Peter admonished. "It's not your fault."

 

"You can't be real," Nathan said. "Maybe I went crazy when you died. Maybe I'm imagining all of this."

 

Peter gripped Nathan's face in both his hands and leaned in to kiss him, gradually deepening the kiss until Nathan felt week in the knees for want of air. "I _am_ real. And I'm alive. I'll show you." Peter grabbed Nathan's hand and tugged him toward the hayloft.

 

Nathan followed him up the ladder. The loft was dark and dusty, with the sweet smell of rotting hay all around, but it looked to Nathan like the most beautiful place in the world, because Peter was there, lying back on a pile of loose hay that some previous occupant had formed into a little nest. Nathan fell to his knees next to Peter and reached down to run a hand along the side of Peter's face.

 

Peter leaned into his touch like a cat. He began stripping off his shirt, revealing a body much more grown-up than the last time Nathan had seen him, in New York. The Army had been good for him, then. Peter was no longer a boy, but a soldier. "See, I'm fine," Peter whispered. He took Nathan's hand and guided it along the lightly tanned, smooth skin of his belly. There were no wounds, nor sign that there had ever been any.

 

"Oh, Peter." Nathan lay down alongside his brother and held him, burying his face in Peter's neck to breathe in the comforting scent of his skin.

 

"I know,” Peter said. He kicked at his boots, and Nathan finally broke off what he was doing to help him, tossing the offending mud-caked boots off into the darkness along with his socks. When Nathan looked back, Peter was touching himself through his pants, his back arching in pleasure as he stared at Nathan. "I've waited for this for so long," he said softly. "Every time you were away I thought about this. I wanted this. Nathan, please."

 

Nathan put his hand on top of Peter's and for a few seconds they stroked him together. Then Peter began to squirm, clawing at the buttons of his pants before pushing them down frantically. "More," he said. "More." He slid his pants all the way off, and then lay gloriously naked below Nathan. His hard cock was flushed with blood, and straining against his taut belly. His hands clutched into fists at his sides. "I don't think I've ever been as alive as this," he whispered. "I want you to be inside me. I just want... If I'm alive, it's for a reason, Nathan."

 

"Pete." Nathan reverently reached down to slide a hand up and down Peter's cock. It felt as smooth and warm as he remembered. Kneeling astride Peter's legs, he bent down to drag his tongue against the head of Peter's cock. Peter moaned deliciously. He tasted as good as Nathan remembered.

 

"Yes," Peter whispered. "I want everything. I want more. Please."

 

"Peter," Nathan said. It was the only word he remembered how to say.  
\--

 

Afterwards, they perched together at the edge of the hayloft.

 

Nathan wished he had a cigarette, but considering the dry hay stacked around them, it was probably for the best that he was out. He’d have settled for alcohol, but he didn’t have any of that, either. He needed something to calm his nerves.

 

Peter, as usual, seemed able to read his mood, and he sat swinging his feet out into empty space, waiting for Nathan to speak his mind.

 

Eventually, Nathan said, “We’ll find a way to send you home, Pete. You can’t stay here.”

 

“I’m perfectly healthy.” Peter patted his chest, where the undershirt still bore the rusty stains of dried blood, and Nathan shuddered. “Besides, I’m a trained soldier. A medic. The war needs me.”

 

“I’ll write Ma a letter,” Nathan said. “She can pull some strings.”

 

“No.” Peter grabbed his arm. “You saw what happened today. It was a miracle.”

 

“There’s no such thing as a miracle.”

 

“How do you explain it, then?”

 

“I don’t explain it. I don’t want to explain it.” Nathan shook his head as if he could erase the memory of Peter’s blood pouring out over his hands. “It’s enough that you’re okay.”

 

“Nathan. The whole world’s at war.” Peter’s admonishing tone sounded too much like their mother. “Did you really think you could keep me safe forever?”

 

“Yes. If you’d just stayed home--.”

 

“And done what? Dad never thought I’d do anything with my life. He always said you were meant to do great things, but he never gave a damn about what I did.”

 

“Don’t speak ill of the dead.”

 

“He’s gone, Nathan. It doesn’t matter,” Peter muttered, but at least he sounded mildly contrite. “I always thought you believed in me.”

 

“I do,” Nathan said. Though if he was honest with himself, he’d never been able to picture Peter as a doctor, despite convincing their parents he should be allowed to study pre-med at his university. He’d never been able to picture Peter in any role other than that of the cherished, protected little brother.

 

“I just want to help,” Peter explained. “Something’s telling me that I’m meant to be here, with you. And what happened today--.”

 

“It’s nothing,” Nathan said quickly. He didn’t want to relive seeing Peter slip away from him.

 

“You can’t ignore this forever. Aren’t you the least bit suspicious that there might be something happening to us?”

 

Nathan hesitated only a second at the memory of Peter’s skin, pale and unmarked where before it had been ruined, before shaking his head again. “I can’t go flying off to explore some crazy miracle. I have to live in the real world, Pete. I’m an officer. I have responsibilities.”

 

“I’m not your responsibility. I’m my own man.”

 

“You’re still just a kid.”

 

“I’m really not.” Peter pulled at the dogtags around his neck. “I earned these. You may not think I’m good for much, but I can do things you don’t know about. I’m strong.”

 

That long, lean body with pale skin fairly glowing in the moonlight and Peter’s eyes, dark with anger and unafraid to challenge, made Nathan reconsider. “Yes. I guess you are.”

 

Peter nodded in satisfaction, leaned back, and began swinging his feet again. “Thanks for saving me today.”

 

Nathan couldn’t get enough air. “If I’d lost you… Damn it, Peter. What if I hadn’t been there?”

 

“But you were. See, it was a miracle.”

 

Nathan shut his mouth on another protest. After spending most of his adult life in action, and the things he’d seen, he couldn’t believe in miracles. He couldn’t understand how anyone who’d been here, anyone who’d seen friends, superior officers, men under his command left bloody and dying in the mud and snow, calling out for mercy, could believe in miracles. “I’m glad you’re safe. But you can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous.”

 

“It’s not your decision, Nathan. I have to do this. You can’t keep protecting me forever.”

 

“You don’t have to go running into danger. This isn’t a game.”

 

“I know that. But you’re over here, and I couldn’t let you come alone.”

 

“Pete… The only thing keeping me sane was knowing that you couldn’t be hurt. I could do what I needed to do to defend my country, because I knew that what mattered most couldn’t be touched. That whatever else happened, you were safe. You took that way from me.”

 

Peter recoiled as if he’d been slapped. He had no answer for his brother, so he only leaned in, his arms tight around Nathan’s body serving as an apology.  
\--

 

“Captain.”

 

Nathan woke with a start. In the dim moonlight, Monroe squatted beside their hayloft nest, eyebrows quirked in amusement. Nathan realized that he and Peter had fallen asleep wrapped up together in the hay. Luckily, they’d been at least partially clothed when they’d done so.

 

Nathan untangled himself slowly, refusing to let his self-consciousness show. Monroe couldn’t possibly know what he was seeing. After all, they were in a war zone, and Peter had almost died yesterday. If ever a circumstance could justify Nathan’s holding his brother in his arms as he slept, this was it.

 

"We need to keep moving."

 

"Monroe? Is it morning?"

 

"No. A few hours to dawn. But Parkman was showing me the map. And if we are where I think we are, then we're right in the middle of the German line. If we leave now, we have some chance of getting back on friendly ground under cover of darkness."

 

"All right. Let's get our things together." He turned back to the little nest where Peter was still curled up, shirtless—he’d stripped more clothes off during the night, as usual—and pale in the pre-dawn light. Nathan placed a hand his shoulder and shook him gently. "Peter. Wake up. We've got to go."

 

Peter’s sleepy smile was angelic for a moment, until it slid into a harder, calculating expression: the look of a soldier evaluating the situation. Nathan frowned to see it on his brother’s face, but Peter sat up quickly, and pulled on his boots right away.

 

Parkman gathered up their meager supplies while the others tried to eradicate every sign that they had been there; they scuffed out their tracks in the dirt and pulled apart the nest in the hayloft before trooping out.

 

Monroe led the way through the scraggly, fruitless orchard behind the barn, whose gnarled branches seemed to reach for them in the dark, and into the woods again. “There should be a stream at the end of this pasture,” Monroe told Nathan. Parkman and Peter were following behind faithfully, both clutching their rifles for comfort. “We'll be able to follow it west, even in the dark."

 

Nathan nodded his agreement. He wasn’t sure when he’d turned all leadership decisions to Monroe, but he suspected it had something to do with the moment he was Peter here: the moment his world narrowed to the need to keep his brother safe.

 

The three of them followed Monroe in silence until they’d found the water and were trudging along the bank. Watching Monroe walk in front of him, confident as he’d ever been in these most recent, harrowing days, put Nathan in a speculative mood. Monroe had been certain, yesterday, that Peter was near death. And yet he hadn’t said anything about Peter’s miraculous recovery. Nathan tried to remember, through the haze of relief and amazement that clouded his memory of the event, how Monroe had reacted to the supposed miracle. The answer he found was puzzling.

 

Nathan spared a glance back to make sure that Parkman and Peter were still following, but not close enough to overhear, and then sped up to walk beside the Englishman. "Monroe. Do you know something about what happened to Peter?"

 

Monroe shot him a sideways glance and kept walking. "What exactly do you think happened?"

 

"You told me he was dying. There was blood everywhere. Now he doesn't have a scratch on him.” He waited for Monroe to comment, but when no answer came, he prompted, “Have you ever seen anything like that before?"

 

"What would you say if I had?"

 

"If you'd told me yesterday, I would have called you a liar,” Nathan said truthfully. “But I think you know more than you're telling me."

 

"All military men have their secrets."

 

"That they do."

 

They walked another few minutes in silence, then Monroe said, “Let me ask you this. If there was some perfectly scientific explanation for why your brother could heal from a gunshot wound, would you want to hear it?”

 

“What kind of a question is that?”

 

“I only ask because some men would prefer to live in ignorance.” Monroe shrugged. “Most men, if they knew half the truth about the world, would go mad. Too much truth is a dangerous thing.”

 

“I believe you. But this…” A horrible thought struck Nathan. “Monroe. Is it something you did to him?”

 

“Not exactly,” Monroe said slowly. “If anything, I’d blame your father.”

 

Nathan’s hand shot out, quick as a snake, and grabbed Monroe by the elbow. “What does this have to do with my father?”

 

“Easy, friend.” Monroe smiled, and Nathan could have sworn he was being toyed with. “The truth is not so far away as you think.”

 

Monroe quickened his pace, but Nathan strode to keep up. He wasn’t letting Monroe leave all his questions unanswered. “Tell me what you know about my father.”

 

“I worked with him, as I’ve told you,” Monroe began. He walked in silence for a few paces, and Nathan followed, waiting him out. Eventually, Monroe continued. “There’s a reason your father never spoke to you about it quite aside from matters of protocol and secrecy.”

 

Monroe seemed indisposed to say anything else, so Nathan prompted, “What reason was that?”

 

“He didn’t want to put you in danger,” Monroe said shortly. “The Allies aren’t the only ones interested in the things people like you and your brother can do. The other side has their own projects.”

 

“People like me and my brother,” Nathan said slowly. He couldn’t help but feel that he’d missed some important part of the conversation.

 

“Surely you must have realized that what happened yesterday was no coincidence. If you think very hard, Captain, I’m sure you’ll find examples from your own experience. Things that you explained away as blind luck or the hand of fate. Think about it.”

 

Monroe picked up his pace again, and this time Nathan let him move ahead. He had no intention of engaging in a witch-hunt to find memories he couldn’t explain. Surely an explanation for yesterday’s events existed, and Nathan intended to find it. After they were out of German territory and found a decent place to camp, Nathan would get more out of Monroe, he was certain.  
\--

 

As the sun came up, the stream led them out of the woods and through hollows of stony pastures. Peter chatted with Parkman as they walked. Nathan followed Monroe, careful not to lose sight of him among the shadows blanketing the woods, but every few minutes he turned back to make sure Peter was still there.

 

“Matty’s ten months now,” Parkman was saying. “She writes me every time he learns a new word.”

 

“I remember when my nephews were that age. Monty was one and a half, I think, before he was making sentences. ‘Ball please, Uncle Peter.’ That kind of thing.”

 

Nathan dropped back. “Cut out the coffee klatch, you two. This isn’t a knitting circle. The Germans could be anywhere.”

 

“Sorry sir,” Parkman muttered. Peter smiled ruefully.

 

They walked in silence for another ten minutes or so, until Parkman hurried up to walk next to Nathan.

 

“Sir, did you hear that?”

 

“Hear what, soldier?”

 

“Talking,” Parkman whispered. “In the woods.”

 

Nathan stopped beside a tree and strained his ears to listen. “I don’t hear anything.”

 

“It sounds like German.”

 

“Do you speak German, Parkman?”

 

“No, but--.”

 

Monroe appeared behind them. “What’s going on?”

 

“Nothing. Let’s keep moving. Parkman, it’s been a rough few days. You’re jumping at shadows.”

 

“You don’t hear that?” He gripped his rifle tighter and edged closer to the trees.

 

“Lieutenant…” Nathan began.

 

“I hear it, too.” Peter came to stand next to Parkman. “Two at least. Coming from that way.” He nodded toward the west.

 

If Peter vouched for it, then Nathan was willing to believe that young ears were hearing something he could not. He slid his rifle off his shoulder and dropped to a crouch. The others followed suit.

 

“I still don’t hear anything,” Monroe hissed.

 

“They’re closer now,” Parkman said. He lifted his rifle and aimed it off into the dim recesses of the trees.

 

“Steady,” Nathan said. “Don’t want any accidental friendly fire.”

 

Peter lifted his rifle as well, and aimed it intently off into the fog. Before either of them could fire, shots rang out from the direction they were watching. Nathan dove for cover, but when he rolled up with weapon at the ready, he realized the danger was not immediate.

 

In the clearing fog, he could see the outlines of gray-uniformed German soldiers exchanging fire with a third party off to the north. From a few feet away, Monroe muttered, “Well I’ll be damned.”

 

Nathan saw at least three Germans drop before the rest turned tail and fled. He glanced over at Parkman and Peter, who still held up their guns, but hadn’t fired a shot.

 

“It’s the British,” Parkman said with relief.

 

“No, Americans,” Peter said. “Don’t you hear the accent?”

 

Nathan still heard no one talking aside from the people he could already see, and he was about to question Peter when a hearty, “That’s right, bastards, run!” rang out in a British accent.

 

Out of the fog walked two men with guns drawn. The first man, tall and imposing, wore U.S. Army fatigues and horn-rimmed glasses. The other man sported a beard and the uniform of a British officer, and was wearing a long coat that seemed too heavy for the weather.

 

Beside Nathan, Monroe stood up and raised his hand in greeting. “Excellent timing, gentlemen.”

 

“Oh.” The British officer looked Monroe over, lowered his gun, and spat on the ground. “I hoped you were dead.”

 

“Not likely,” Monroe said with a smirk. He slid his sidearm into its holster and nodded to Nathan. “It’s alright. They’re friends.”

 

Nathan stepped up to their rescuers and took note of the rank of the man in horn-rimmed glasses: Corporal. “I’m Captain Petrelli,” he said. “Eighty-seventh airborne.”

 

The spectacled man cocked his head curiously. “I thought we lost all the eighty-seventh on that snafu down in J-- two weeks back.”

 

“Not all of us,” Nathan said darkly. “You are?”

 

“Bennet,” he said. “Special division. That’s Raines.”

 

“Claude,” the Brit said. He glanced at Monroe. “This Arthur and Angela’s boy?”

 

“One of them. There’s the other.” Monroe nodded to Peter.

 

Nathan didn’t appreciate being talked about like he didn’t exist, but he figured it was poor manners to reprimand a man who’d rescued him from a probable German ambush, so he didn’t interject.

 

“Huh,” said Bennet. “You are?” He gestured with his gun.

 

“Parkman.”

 

Bennet looked the Lieutenant up and down, and finally nodded. “Let’s get out of here.”  
\--

 

Their special division had set up a little camp in the low field of a little farm along the banks of a river Nathan couldn’t identify. A dozen or more tents stood in an orderly pattern at one end of the field, and at least two cook fires burned cheerily. Nathan had to admit that the establishment looked homier than R-- ever had.

 

When they trudged in, exhausted, a few other uniformed soldiers—Nathan recognized the insignia of a variety of divisions—gave them the once-over before going about their business.

 

“Our commanding officer wants to see you,” Bennet said to Nathan. Then he turned and nodded to Peter and Parkman. “Do you two want to get cleaned up?”

 

“Come on,” Monroe said. “Let’s leave them to it.” He clapped Nathan on the shoulder and walked away, clearly expecting Nathan to follow.

 

Nathan went a few steps, and then stopped, surveying the camp speculatively. Monroe noticed he wasn’t following, and came back to stand beside Nathan. “Something wrong, Captain?”

 

“This camp look semi-permanent,” Nathan said slowly. The traffic of many feet had worn dirt paths through the grass between the river and where they now stood. The wooden slats that served as flooring for the tents were darkened with weathering; they hadn’t been cut recently. “Did you know it was here?”

 

Monroe slung his rifle over his shoulder casually and shrugged. “I’ve been here before.”

 

“So we weren’t inside German territory,” Nathan said. “When you woke us up this morning, you meant to bring us here.” His hand crept toward his sidearm.

 

Monroe watched him calmly, and again, Nathan could have sworn he was amused. “I knew what I was doing, yes.”

 

“So what’s the idea, Sergeant?” Nathan curled his fingers around the grip of his gun, pulled it from his holster, and aimed, never taking his eyes from Monroe. “Is this a trap? Are you a spy?”

 

“Easy, friend.” Monroe tucked his rifle in the crook of his arm and held up his hands in mock surrender. “I told you that military men have their secrets. After what happened yesterday, I knew it was time for you to learn more about your father’s work. That’s why I brought you here.”

 

“You lied to me.”

 

Monroe nodded. “And will again, probably.” He nodded toward the mess tent. “Just talk to our commander. He’ll tell you what you need to know.”

 

“Why should I trust you?”

 

“Trust me or don’t. But I have a feeling you’ll want to hear what Linderman has to say.” He slung his weapon back up over his shoulder, heedless of the weapon Nathan still had trained on him, turned his back, and sauntered off into the camp.  
\--

 

Sergeant Major Linderman was chopping vegetables at a high table in the mess tent. He waved his knife genially at Nathan when he entered. “Nathan, my boy. Come in, come in.”

 

Nathan stepped forward and let the tent flap fall closed behind him. The tent was set up with several foldable tables and accompanying chair. A small field kitchen stood along one side, where Linderman was working. Nathan recognized the man from gatherings of his father’s in years past, but it struck him now as he took in the incongruously domestic sight of this camp’s commanding officer preparing lunch, that the man looking nothing like a soldier. His kind, bright eyes and ready smile reminded Nathan more of the kindly country doctor he’d had as a child than the proper hard visage of a military leader.

 

“Glad to see you well,” Linderman said pleasantly. “Your mother had us worried.”

 

“My mother? Sir, what is this all about?” he asked. As an old friend of the family, Linderman certainly knew both Arthur and Angela, but Nathan was at a loss as to how Angela would figure in any way into the events of the past days.

 

“This is about your safety. Your brother’s safety, too,” Linderman said. He picked up a handful of cut peppers from the table and tossed them into a divine-smelling broth simmering on a little kerosene stove. “I know that’s important to you.”

 

Nathan’s mouth watered. It had been weeks, perhaps months if he dared to count, since he’d eaten a meal that hadn’t come from a tin. The whole scene was a surreal mix of comfort and disquiet as Linderman’s words made him doubt his grasp on the situation. Nathan said warily, “Peter’s family.”

 

“Yes. Petrellis certainly do believe in family. Monroe told me what happened with your brother. An amazing story. How do you explain it, Captain?”

 

“Luck, sir,” Nathan said cautiously. Some instinct whispered that he should guard his words with this man, family friend or no. “I’m just glad he’s okay.”

 

“Luck.” Linderman finished chopping a carrot and swept it into the pot with the rest of the ingredients. “Do you really believe in luck, Captain? I had thought you were the sort of man who believed in destiny, rather than dumb luck.”

 

“I honestly can’t explain what happened, sir,” Nathan said. It was no more than the truth.

 

“I can, Nathan.” Linderman set down his knife and wiped his hands on the white apron he wore. “In fact, I’m surprised something like this didn’t happen sooner.”

 

“If you know so much, then explain it to me,” Nathan said. Then, realizing the unsuitableness of his tone, added, “Sir.”

 

“All in good time. There’s a time for everything in the military, my boy.” Linderman gestured genially at the tent, perhaps to indicate the neat little camp outside. “I think it’s time you and your brother came off the front line. You both have abilities that would be much more useful here with us.”

 

“With you,” Nathan repeated slowly. “And what exactly is this place?”

 

“Special operations,” Linderman said, though Nathan thought he caught a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “We’re a company of experts. We do research and field testing of new weapons and tactics.”

 

“Weapons testing,” Nathan said. That would explain the need for so much secrecy. However, he hadn’t seen tanks outside, or anything that looked like missiles or guns. He hadn’t seen anything other than tents and people. “Here?”

 

“Weapons come in many shapes and sizes, Nathan. You should know that as well as any man. Words can be weapons.” He paused thoughtfully, and his smile stretched wider. “People themselves can be weapons.”

 

A shiver ran through Nathan at the _hunger_ in Linderman’s tone. “That is what they train us for, sir.”

 

“That’s not what I mean.” Linderman stepped closer and lowered his voice. “What would happen if the Germans had a hundred soldiers who could do what your brother can do?”

 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Nathan’s heart hammered in his chest. He had a wild impulse to reach for his gun, but he willed his hand to stay at his side. He _would_ marshal himself and remain calm.

 

“Heal, Nathan,” Linderman said, deliberately slowly and clearly. “Recover from any wound in a matter of minutes. What would happen then, hm?” He turned back to the counter and began peeling potatoes vigorously. “The Germans are already doing genetic experimentation. The Japanese have begun an intensive testing program. Who knows what they’ve discovered?”

 

“Sir…” Nathan began. He wasn’t sure if he meant to deny what had happened to Peter, or demand an explanation.

 

“There are some techniques too distasteful even for us,” Linderman went on. “No, my boy, Arthur was quite wrong there. We won’t become monsters for our cause. We’ll work with what we have. And we’ve very fortunate to have you and your brother here with us.”

 

“What do you mean my father was wrong?” Despite his misgivings, Nathan couldn’t help drifting closer to Linderman. Here at last was information about the cause for which his father had died.

 

“Progress was too slow for his taste,” Linderman said with a frown. “He wanted to see what the other side was up to. Always was a stubborn bastard. Never liked to depend on anyone else, even old friends. Apparently the Japanese got the better of him.”

 

“Are you saying he was spying?”

 

“It’s not important.” Linderman shook his head. “What’s important was that he believed in our cause enough to die for it.” He turned quickly, holding the cutting knife down at his side and staring at Nathan intently. “You want to keep you brother safe, don’t you Captain Petrelli?”

 

Nathan looked back at Linderman evenly. The man knew things, useful things. He clearly had his own plans, but Nathan was confident in his ability to out-maneuver anyone, with the right motivation. And what better motivation was there than the desire to protect his family? “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

 

“I can make sure you’re assigned to my unit, if you like. You won’t have to go back to the fighting…” He turned back to the work surface and as he spoke he idly peeled the skin off a potato in one long strip. “Filthy muddy fields and ruined towns and waking up in the middle of the night every time a gun is fired in the distance. You’ll be safe. More importantly,” he added. “Peter will be safe.” He craned his head back over his shoulder to fix Nathan with a significant look. “You’ve seen boys like him, when they get the shiny new rubbed off of them. They come out of war different. Like you. Do you want that for your brother?”

 

“Of course not,” Nathan said tightly.

 

Linderman wiped his hands off once more on his apron, turned to face Nathan, and leaned back against the table. “So what do you say?”

 

Nathan stepped up. “What do I have to do, sir?”  
\--

 

When Nathan emerged, blinking, into the afternoon sunshine, Monroe, Bennet, and Parkman were nowhere to be found. The British officer, Raines, stood in a patch of sunshine down by the river, sparring against Peter. They’d shoved sticks in their weapons in place of proper bayonets, and circled each other cautiously.

 

Peter was awkward with the rifle, Nathan noticed as he approached. He was too reluctant to go at the larger man full-on, and he telegraphed his moves long before he made them. Raines neatly sidestepped Peter’s sloppy charge and whacked him across the back with his own weapon. Peter yelped, and Raines just laughed and stepped away.

 

“Lad could use some toughening up,” he said to Nathan on his way back up to the tents. “If he’s going back to combat.” Then he was gone.

 

Peter smiled sheepishly at Nathan and pulled the makeshift bayonet out of his gun. “Guess it’s been a while since basic training.”

 

“Yeah,” Nathan said hollowly. He’d seen bayonet wounds before, and he had no wish for Peter to see anything like that, much less experience it. When he closed his eyes, he could still see Peter’s blood against pale, pale skin.

 

“What did you talk about? With the commander?”

 

“He’s a friend of Dad’s. Linderman,” Nathan said. “Ever meet him?” Peter shook his head. Nathan looked back up the hill toward the mess tent, where Linderman was probably still bustling around adding spices to his damn sauce. He didn’t trust the man further than he could toss a Panzer, but he was willing to play along for now, if it meant he would get what he wanted. “I got us a transfer, Pete.”

 

“I’m not going home,” Peter said immediately. “I told you, I want to help.”

 

“I know.” Nathan managed a small smile. “I made the mistake of leaving you at home before. It won’t happen again.”

 

“Okay. So what’s the plan?”

 

Nathan looked back up the hill at the neat little camp, with all its hidden secrets, and back out at the woods, where unknown danger waited. Finally, he focused on his brother, looking back at him eagerly and expectantly. “Do you trust me?”

 

“Of course.” Peter sounded hurt that Nathan had even asked.

 

“Then trust me. We’ll stay with this company. We’re meant to do something here, something more than we could do with just guns and bare hands and damn bayonets out there in the mud.” He snatched Peter’s rifle out of his hands easily—too easily—and pulled out the stick that had been standing in for a bayonet.

 

“And we get to stay together.” Peter held out his hand for his weapon, and Nathan handed it back reluctantly.

 

“That too,” Nathan said. “What do you say?” On an impulse, he stuck out his hand.

 

Peter smirked at him, but took Nathan’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “Okay. I’m in.”

 

“Good.” He squeezed Peter’s hand, and Peter beamed back at him. “Peter?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m not happy you came.” Nathan used Peter’s hand to drag him in closer, until they were almost touching, their twined hands pressed between them. “But I am glad you’re here.”

 

“It’s where I’m meant to be, right?”

 

“Yeah.” Nathan threw his arm around Peter. The two of them stood looking up at the slate-gray skies over the western front. “Meant to be.”  


* * *


End file.
